


Lighten Up

by ForTheLoveOf1776



Series: Ace's Oneshot Collection [7]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Albert DaSilva & Racetrack Higgins Friendship, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Jack Kelly, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Crutchie & Jack Kelly Friendship, David Jacobs & Jack Kelly Friendship, Death, Established Relationship, Gay Racetrack Higgins, Jack Kelly & Katherine Plumber Pulitzer Friendship, M/M, Morris Delancey and Oscar Delancey Being Assholes, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sad Jack Kelly, Self-Indulgent, Spot Conlon is Bad at Feelings, except uhhhh i killed one of 'em?, this is for me and my rarepair ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28496031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOf1776/pseuds/ForTheLoveOf1776
Summary: "Lighten up, no one died."Really.Are you sure about that, Davey?
Relationships: Albert DaSilva & Racetrack Higgins, David Jacobs & Jack Kelly, Jack Kelly & Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Morris Delancey & Oscar Delancey, Racetrack Higgins/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon & Racetrack Higgins
Series: Ace's Oneshot Collection [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057496
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Lighten Up

**Author's Note:**

> I ship a rarepair. So I wrote a fic for said rarepair. And killed one of those in that rarepair.
> 
> Whoops.
> 
> (All in all, a pretty average day for me but I promise I've got some fluff in the works.)
> 
> TW: death, violence, abuse, and possible suicide (it can be interpreted as such).

“Lighten up, no one died.”

“So Racetrack is no one, then?”

Davey started, his confusion evident in his creased brow. Jack glared back, arms folded over his painting apron, trying to ignore the anguish bubbling in his chest and concealing the sob rising up his throat. 

He failed, and miserably so.

“Wha—”

“The Delanceys got ‘im, Davey! We was runnin’ from the bulls after we got Crutchie safe from ‘em, an’ Morris an’ Oscar show up behind us, an’ they had a baton an’ they beat ‘im—” Jack choked up, tears running down his face, distraught. He heard Katherine’s gasp of “no” behind him, saw Davey tearing up too, and felt Les take his hand.

“They beat ‘im ta death,” he finished, his voice small.

Davey looked like someone had just killed his friend. (Well. Um.) 

“Jack…”

* * *

_ “Jack…” _

_ Six months before the strike. _

_ Jack had pinned Racetrack against a wall in an alley, hearing him moan his name softly as he pressed kisses to Race’s neck. _

_ They’d been doing this for a couple of weeks now; Jack sending Race a certain look from across the room, seeing his cocky smirk as confirmation, then meeting in a secluded area to kiss each other senseless. _

_ It had all started when they’d had to share a bunk in the private rooms due to limited space, as there always was in the winter seasons. _

_ Through the close proximity, one thing had led to another. They didn’t get much sleep that night, but neither cared. After that, Jack and Racetrack started sharing a private room, claiming it was to “free up some spaces” and “saving money”.  _

_ (The other newsies saw right through this, but none of them minded _ — _ especially Albert and Crutchie, who were both no longer subject to whining from Race and Jack respectively.) _

_ Anyways, they were together now, and that’s all that mattered to them. We’ll leave them there, making out like there’s no tomorrow, concealed from the outside world in an alleyway. _

* * *

He’d left him concealed from the outside world in an alleyway. After Davey and Katherine had gotten over their initial shock at Race’s murder, they left the theater to find his body. (But not before sending Les to the Lodging House, sworn to secrecy.)

Jack led them there, stumbling over every step in his grief-stricken stupor. They were near the circulation gates when he stopped short.

“I—I dunno if I can—”

Davey took his hand, and Katherine followed suit. A simple gesture, meant to be comforting, but all it did was make Jack feel worse. ( ~~ Because it should be  _ Race’s _ ~~ ~~hand in his.~~ )

Taking a deep breath, he composed himself, and walked forward.

Jack had stolen a sheet off of a clothesline to cover Racetrack’s body. It was white, so the blood had seeped through. He knelt  ~~ read: fell ~~ ~~down~~ next to him, and threw the sheet aside. Jack’s breath caught in his throat, his heart dropping through his chest, his stomach lurching. Jack brushed a light hand over Race’s cheek, tears already pooling in his eyes.

Because there was a dead boy in the alleyway, beaten black, blue, and bloody. Two others were in the alleyway, nearly sick at the sight of him. And there was a broken boy in the alleyway, crying, because the dead boy was the one he loved.

* * *

_ “You’re the one I love,” Race had whispered, trailing a hand down the side of Jack’s face. _

_ A week before the strike. _

_ It was a hazy evening. A lazy summer breeze blew over the rooftop where they had lay together, side by side, gazing into the other’s eyes. They had no idea what was going to hit them next week, but for now, this moment together was more than enough. _

_ Jack had smiled softly. “You love me, Racer?” _

_ “Yeah, Jacky, I do.” _

_ Jack’s grin widened.  _

_ “I love you too.” _

_ He leaned in to kiss Race, happier than he had ever been, because the boy he loved also loved him. _

_ This was a moment Jack would remember forever. _

* * *

This was a moment Jack would remember forever. For different reasons, this time.

He stood in front of his Manhattan newsies, soaking in the silence.

“So there’s uh, a reason I’s gotcha ‘ere right now. Some o’ ya may have noticed tha’ one of us ain’t—ain’t ‘ere no more,'' his voice broke, and the confusion on their faces switched to concern.

“Jack, is somethin’ wrong?” Albert asked. “Where’s Race?”

Oh god.  _ Albert. _ Race’s best friend since the dawn of time. Well, ever since the red haired boy had stepped foot into the Lodging House, anyway. A vaguely annoying lanky blond kid had latched onto him, and they’d been inseparable ever since.

Death, however, is the greatest separator to ever exist.

“Racetrack… he—him an’ I, uh,” Jack stuttered unsure of what to say. He looked towards the back of the room where Davey stood with Les. Their eyes made contact, and Davey nodded at him, silently sending strength.

“Yesterday, uh, Racer an’ I, we got Crutchie away from the bulls, then ran ourselves, ‘cause no one’s wantin’ ta go to the Refuge. But as we was leavin’, the Delancey brothers show up behind us, an’ they’s got their sticks, an’ they grabbed Race an’...” 

Jack looked up from where he’d cast his gaze, meeting the eyes of every single one of his boys. Most of them were still confused, some wary as to where this was heading, and a few, Albert included, had already assumed the worst.

“They fucking killed him. Morris an’ Oscar killed Race,” Jack finished, his voice shaking with pain and a touch of anger.

The assembled Manhattan newsies sat in shock and silence.

“No…” Albert slid off his bed onto the ground, running a hand through his hair, fighting back tears. “No, that can’t be true. Jack, please tell me you’s jokin’. Race can’t be dead!”

Jack crouched down next to him, silently crying himself, and pulled him into a hug. Albert had never been one for physical affection, but this was a situation where they both needed it. 

“I’s so sorry, Al. I really is,” he murmured. Albert fell into him, sobbing. Jack distantly heard the others shuffling around the room, giving them space, but also grieving themselves, but the main thing his brain was focused on was Racetrack. On the ground. Bleeding, black, and blue. Dead.

* * *

_ “Dead. We’s dead, Jack. If we don’ have Brooklyn wit’ us none o’ the other boroughs are gonna strike then we’s all one our own! Spot’s right. Jacky, we don’ stand a chance.” _

_ The day before the strike. _

_ Race and Jack had gone to Brooklyn together, hoping to win Spot Conlon’s support. _

_ They didn’t, and it had left Racetrack panicked. Jack had glanced around to check the coast was clear, before pushing Race into a dark corner and kissing him gently. _

_ “It’s gonna be a’right, Racer. I’s gotcha, sweetheart. We can do this.” _

_ “Together?” _

_ “Forever an’ always.”  _

_ They had shared a brief smile before heading back out onto the Brooklyn streets, walking to the comfort of home. _

* * *

They headed out onto the Brooklyn streets, walking from the comfort of home. Jack, leaving the rest of ‘Hattan under Crutchie’s watch, was returning to talking with Spot Conlon.

He wasn’t looking forward to it.

It was Albert’s idea (after he regained at least a fraction of composure) to break the news to Spot, as he and Racetrack had been good friends. They were close enough that Spot allowed Race to sell in Brooklyn whenever he wanted to, not to mention the biweekly poker games that had been going on for years between them.

Jack  _ really _ wasn’t looking forward to this. Everything just felt so damn wrong, and he was barely pushing through it all. The pain of his loss was unbearable, and it hung over him like the sword of Damocles, only the predicted tragedy had already occurred.

He began pacing, anxiety intensifying, waiting for Spot to arrive.

Also, at Davey's suggestion, he had to negotiate for Spot’s Brooklyn boys, and by that extent the rest of New York’s newsies, to join the strike. Jack had never been a negotiator. Sure, he had the charisma, but it was Race who was better at applying it.

_ Race. _ God, he needed him here.  _ But he’s dead. _

Jack mentally shoved the intrusion away, shaking his head. He didn’t want this shit right now. He had things to do, news to break, fights to make. There wasn’t any room for grieving. His feelings had to be second right now. Second…

Racetrack was Manhattan’s second. Long before they’d gotten together, when Jack was just starting to be looked to as the leader of his borough, he elected Race to be second-in-command. He’d been a newsie since he was little. At almost three years old he’d been orphaned, so Race had lived in the Lodging House as a newsie most of his life.

Man, Jack really needed to stop this. Just the thought of Race had his eyes stinging and body tensing. He couldn’t cry, not here in Brooklyn, not right now, in front of Spot—

Great. Spot was here.

“What’cha want, Kelly?” he drawled, crossing his arms. Jack had sent a message for Spot to meet him at the Bridge. Lo and behold, the leader of Brooklyn showed, in all his 5-foot-short glory.

“Spot—”

“If it’s any bullshit abou’ the strike, I’s leavin’,” he warned.

Jack sighed defeatedly, taking off his cap to run a hand through his hair. “It’s not abou’ the strike—well it’s, uh,  _ related _ ta the strike—jus’ wanna make tha’ clear,'' Spot motioned for him to go on. “It’s…”  _ screw it. _ “It’s about wha’ happened.”

Spot’s eyes narrowed, concerned. “I heard you’s got attacked. An’ I heard you’s put up a good fight.”

Jack nodded his thanks. “Yeah, well, not good enough, ‘parently,” he choked up slightly.

“What’s happened, Kelly?”

“Race—” he didn’t get further before breaking down. So much for keeping it together in front of Spot.

“Racetrack? Wha’s happened to Racetrack?”

“They’s killed ‘im,” Jack managed to spit out through the sobs. “He got beaten ta death by the fuckin’ Delanceys.”

Spot visibly stopped at the words. Jack met his eyes, and was surprised to see them wet. 

“No. Please tell me you’s lyin’. Racer—”

“Is dead.”

A beat.

“...fuck.”

Spot looked away, eyes scanning over the Bridge, towards Manhattan. Jack knew Spot well through their respective leadership, and he recognised a decision being made. 

“I’s wit’ ya.”

“For sure?”

“Nah,” Spot looked at him again, smiling a broken smile. “For Racetrack,” and then Spot Conlon, mighty leader of Brooklyn, feared and revered by all newsboys across New York, fell into Jack and shattered. It shook him right to his core; here was the strongest newsboy in the whole city, crying in his arms over the death of Racetrack motherfucking Higgins. He nearly laughed, because Race and his narcissistic self would have loved knowing people cared this much. Instead of laughing though—well, Jack couldn’t be hypocritical of Spot, because he was sobbing, too. Not just of sadness (that was the foremost reason), but also because things were looking up ( ~~and Race wasn’t here to see it~~.) Manhattan had support for their strike.

Here, everything changes.

* * *

_ Here, everything changes. _

_ The day of the strike. _

_ No one from the other boroughs had shown, but it didn’t matter. The entirety of Lower Manhattan were assembled, ready to go. Jack and Davey had just convinced the scabs to join the strike. Then, they set to work destroying papers and the wagons  _ _ in an i n c r e d i b l e dance break which is truly unmatched in musical theater to this day _ _ and fighting off the Delanceys. After they took a photo for Katherine’s news story, they had celebrated, throwing the destroyed papes into the air. _

_ Jack had caught Race’s eye from across the yard, and smiled at him. He couldn’t wait to celebrate with him privately, to kiss that dumb smirk off his face and maybe go further _ —

_ Movement in the side of his vision had Jack reeling. Because there, being let in through the gate, was Wiesel, Morris and Oscar. Oh, and a couple dozen of Pulitzer’s goons.  _ Armed _ goons. _

_ Silence. Then _ —

_ “Hey, newsies!” Jack had called. “Get ‘em!” _

_ A fight had broken out, punches thrown by him and at him until a whistle screeched through it all. _

_ Romeo had staggered up to the policeman. “It’s about time you showed up! They’s slaughtering us,” he’d said, before getting viciously backhanded. Jack’s stomach had lurched. _

_ “Cheese it, it’s the bulls!” he had run towards Race, who had just herded a bunch of newsies unnoticed through a side-gate.  _

_ “Jacky, we’s gotta run!” _

_ “Yeah I _ — _ ” _

_ But behind him was a scream. “Jack, Race, help! Wait for me!” he turned, and saw Crutchie being hauled away by the Delancey brothers. Without a moment’s hesitation, both Jack and Racetrack had taken down the brothers, before grabbing Crutchie off the ground. _

_ They had made quick pace for the Lodging House, supporting Crutchie the whole way. _

_ But it wasn’t fast enough. They had heard shouts behind them. _

_ “Shit, Jacky, they’s coming.” _

_ “I know. Crutchie,” Jack let him go, handing him his crutch. “Go to the Lodging House the long way. It’s us they’s after.” _

_ “But _ — _ ” _

_ “Just go!” Race had cried, already taking Jack’s hand and sprinting with him down the streets. _

_ “There they is!” called Morris from behind them. _

_ “I see ‘em!” Oscar yelled. They had sounded close. Jack and Race hadn’t dared look behind them, running at top speed (which was already pretty high for Racer; Jack was struggling to keep up). _

_ But just when they had thought they were losing them _ —oops.

_ Racetrack had tripped, taking them both down with him.  _

_ “Fuck.” _

_ Jack had pulled him up again quickly. They ducked into a side-alley, his heart beating louder than he had thought possible, and made to take off again. But a hand had yanked him back by his collar _ —

* * *

A hand yanked him back by his collar. Jack whirled around, already in fight mode—but it was just Davey.

“Davey! Wha’ the hell?”

“Sorry,” he said, not looking very sorry. “I just have to ask: are you sure you can do this?”

“Yeah. Y—yeah! I’s gots ta, f’ Racer,” he said,  trying to convince himself as well .

Davey raised his eyebrows, but otherwise seemed sincere. “Alright, Jack. Let’s do this thing.”

They stepped into the large theatre space, applause loud. Davey introduced Jack, made a special mention to Spot and Brooklyn (because Brooklyn newsboys are narcissistic bastards—intimidating ones, though), then it was Jack’s turn to speak. The crowd of newsies from all across New York started chanting his name. 

“Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack!” 

It was almost like a war-cry; like these newsboys were preparing to march into battle with him, Jack Kelly, leading them onto victory. Or so he hoped.

“Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack!” 

The rhythmic yells synchronised with his heartbeat. He looked around, seeing many familiar faces ( ~~ but not the one he wanted ~~ ). Spot, Crutchie—looking battered, but still okay—Albert, Elmer, Specs,  _ all _ his Lower Manhattan boys.

_ But not Racetrack. _

Jack sighed, giving himself a second longer. “A’right!” he called out, and they quieted.

“Pulitzer,” he began, pointing at his caricature behind him, “raised the price o’ papes withou’ so much as a word to us, an’ tha’ was a lousy thing to do. So’s we got mad and we showed ‘em we ain’t gonna be pushed around. So we go on strike.”

Jack paused for a moment, once again taking in the crowd of faces, who were believing in  _ him _ and in what  _ he _ had to say.

“An’ it worked,'' he smiled, mostly to himself. “Look a’ wha’ we’s done! We’s shut down the city’s biggest papers, we’s standing, defiant, against some o’ the mos’ powerful people, an’ we gots them scared!” 

The rallied newsboys erupted into cheers and applause, stopping after Jack held his hand up for silence.

“But nothin’ ever comes easy—an’ we knows tha’! People don’ give up power withou’ a fight. So, they fought.”

* * *

_ They fought. _

_ Just after the strike. _

_ It was Oscar who had grabbed Jack, punching him square in the jaw. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morris slam Racer into the alley wall, knocking the breath out of him.  _

_ The action against his lover had ignited something in Jack. A rage, fueled by the protective instincts at his core. _

_ In one clean blow he had pushed Oscar away and dragged Morris off of Race. Wrong choice. Oscar retaliated quickly, jumping at Jack, which had given Morris enough leverage to throw a nasty left hook to the side of Jack’s head.  _

_ It had sent him reeling, brain fuzzy, and he had promptly thrown up.  _

_ In his vague recollection of the fight, he remembers thinking he was done for. The Delancey brothers were known for not stopping when someone was down. But, and here Jack assumes, Racetrack must have done something, because the Delanceys didn’t touch him again.  _

_ What happened next? _

* * *

“What happened next?” Jack asked. “Well, we don’ know yet, ‘cause it ain’t happened,” he was met with laughter. Always good to brighten the mood.

_ No one was laughing. No one was helping. No one even looked down the alleyway. No one saw Oscar slip on his brass knuckles and Morris pull out a knife and  _ no! _ — _

“—really. What we need, fellas, is a plan o’ action. Right now, we’s gotta decide wha’ we’s doin’ an’ how we’s doin’ it. Are ya wit’ me?”

It was quiet for a moment, before a small murmur started up, boroughs pledging support, newsies coming forward, suggesting ideas, and suddenly Jack and his Manhattan boys were no longer

_ Helpless. He was helpless to stop it. He was falling, but still on the ground. Even so, he felt himself rise up _ —

“—only to be beaten back down again. That wasn’t a fair fight, and neither is this,” Davey finished, explaining the fight in the distribution yard.

“Tha’ wasn’t the only fight yesterday,” Spot said from the front of the crowd. “Jack, I thinks ya should tell ‘em.”

“Tell us wha’?” someone yelled out. Spot’s eyes bored into Jack. Why do short people have more anger in them?

“Well, uh,” he took a deep breath, once again wondering how the hell he was managing through this shit, “yesterday Racetrack—”

— _ had tried to fight back, but even from Jack’s perspective he knew it was pointless. The Delanceys had the upper hand and the weapons. _

_ And the blows had just kept coming. _

_ Racetrack had cried out for help, calling Jack’s name, but there wasn’t anything he could do other than attempt to drag himself off the ground, to find the strength because _ ,  _ Jack, he needs your help but to no avail.  _

_ All he could do was watch as Racer tried to curl up to stop the merciless blows, the stabs, the screams of abuse and the actual abuse and the blood turning from dark to bright crimson and then he knew it was over and the bruises were already going black and fucking  _ finally _ Oscar took a step back and realised it was too far and “holy shit Morris we’s murderers” and they had scampered off and Jack crawled over to Racetrack, his head ringing, and he could barely see him through the tears _ — 

—but this time he had a hand on his shoulder and he wasn’t alone—

— _ yet, but Race was dying and all he said was “I love you I love you I love you I love you” although whichever person was saying it was unclear and Jack couldn’t do anything in that moment  _ other  _ than love him and kiss him for the last time and taste his blood on his lips as Racetrack, his Racetrack, went limp in his arms and Jack knew then that he was lost forever because for the first time there was no light behind his eyes and then Jack just broke _ — 

—down sobbing, but not in Medda’s theatre anymore because the rally was long finished. They had a plan; to spread the word to all working kids in New York City to go on strike against unfair work ethics. The Children’s Crusade, Katherine had called it. But now, Jack was alone for the first time since—

— _ he’d met Racetrack in their preteens. Race, a veteran of the newsboys, and Jack, a hardened street kid _ —

—so that meant he should theoretically be strong and never cry ever. Theoretically. But still, his body was racked with sobs and he cried, on top of the roof of the Lodging House and he thought—

— _ about his death. The life he could’ve had. But no matter because his life _ —

—was over.

**Author's Note:**

> In a story like this, closure was never an option. Jack and Racetrack were always doomed from the moment they met. Destiny foretold they were to fall in love, to start a revolution, to fight, and to die.  
> With the doomed, there is always a story to be told.  
> With stories, there is always a reader.  
> With readers, there is always an interpretation.  
> Interpretations? Always different.  
> Take your pick.
> 
> ... I'm sorry :(


End file.
